


you don't get another chance, life is no nintendo game

by notthebigspoon



Series: Shoot The Moon [2]
Category: Baseball RPF, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notthebigspoon/pseuds/notthebigspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Buster never wants to set foot in AT&T Park again. He wants to step foot in AT&T Park so badly he hurts with it. The only thing that stops him from running back into the TARDIS and begging the Doctor to take him away, to take him anywhere in time and space but here, is the fact that the Doctor would laugh in his face before giving Buster exactly what he wanted.</p><p>Title taken from Love The Way You Lie by Eminem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you don't get another chance, life is no nintendo game

The Doctor is an aggravatingly chipper person in the mornings. This morning he's particularly unbearable. When Buster staggers into the control room, a mug of coffee is shoved into his hand and he's all but dragged out of the TARDIS. He blinks once, twice, three times to adjust to the sunlight. He can hear waves and seagulls and the Doctor talking a mile a minute.

“Did you move the TARDIS out to the Cove?”

“Astute as always. I couldn't very well keep it inside. And you, Mister Posey, Need to turn around and walk into that stadium. The man with the big head commands it.” The Doctor announces, planting his hands on Buster's shoulders and forcibly turning him around, steering him towards the park.

Buster yawns. “You or Bochy?”

“Silence.”

“Yeah, they hate you even more than I do.”

The Doctor scowls. “Shut up and go inside. Now.”

Buster doesn't want to go inside. Really, though, he wants to go inside so badly that he's shaking. It's a disassociative clusterfuck of feelings. The thing that propels him forward is how insufferable the Doctor will be if he just gives up and the idea of giving Amy Pond any more ammunition against him than she already has.

Damn Scottish ginge. And isn't that great? He's starting to talk like the Doctor.

It's quiet and cool inside the park and he has memories of before, how this used to be the only thing that made sense to him. He remembers the road to the series, how excited he was in spite of the pain of his failing marriage. He remembers the pure unadulterated joy when they won. The parades and the love and affection from so many people that he didn't even know, just for helping to bring that trophy home.

The first night they were back in San Francisco was the first and only night that he slept with Tim. He told Kristen the truth. The divorce was finalized two months later.

It isn't until a hand closes on his shoulder that Buster realizes how tense he's gotten. He jumps and nearly shrieks, biting on his lip so hard it draws blood as he tries to stifle it. Pure reflex has him lashing out and twisting the hand on his shoulder away from his body as he turns. He comes face to face with a wide-eyed Wilson. He smiles, rather shakily, and pats Wilson's arm.

“Sorry Weezy. Not used to people getting the jump on me.”

“Can kinda see that. The fuck happened while you were gone?” Wilson asks. He shakes his head, holding up a hand. “Yeah yeah, you don't know. Well come on. Everybody was wondering if you were going to show up.”

Buster stares at him, feeling the color drain from his face. “Everybody?”

“Think you even made the news. TMZ has copies of the police report and everything... Posey? Hey, you okay? You look sick.”

A concerned Brian Wilson was never something Buster had gotten familiar with. He just associated Wilson with crazy. He'll take what he can get though, nodding and gulping for air. He had a panic attack once, when Jack Harkness had shot himself in the head a foot away from Buster and Buster had been splattered with gray matter. He thinks that's what's happening right now. Wilson steers him into an empty conference room where it's dark and quiet, sitting him down on a bench.

Weezy squats down in front of him, resting his arms on Buster's knees. “You sure you can do this? If you think you can't, if you want to leave, I can pretend I never saw you.”

“I can't. The Doctor, he'll never let me hear the end of it.”

“Yeah, the guy with the big head. Almost as big as Bochy's, never thought I'd see that.” Wilson grins, standing up when he's satisfied that Buster's done freaking out. “Did you bring something to practice in or do I need to get you something?”

“I don't have anything. I mean, I've got what I'm wearing.” Buster answers, looking at himself helplessly. Jeans and a t-shirt advertising a nightclub from the planet Midnight. Not exactly pro ball gear.

“Right. I'll go find you some clothes. Stay here unless you want to be attacked.”

And isn't that comforting.

Wilson returns carrying a home game uniform, a BP jersey and cleats. Buster changes with shaking hands, smoothing his hands over his body and staring at a mirror. It's been so long since he's worn this uniform that he almost doesn't recognize himself. In a moment of still uncharacteristic compassion, Wilson says nothing, disappearing with Buster's things to stash them in his own locker while Buster takes a few minutes to compose himself, pulling on the hat and taking a breath. He steps into the hallways, navigating the familiar way back out onto the field, just like riding a bicycle. 

The last time Buster was on a baseball diamond was on a planet where the grass was red and the life forms were blue. The children had welcomed him into their game with bright smiles and they'd played until the sun went down. The diamond had been tiny and dusty and the bases had been marked with whatever the children had been able to scrounge together. He'd pitched until his arm had felt like it was going to fall off and a tiny blue girl with pink pigtails had kissed his cheek before running off with her brothers.

(There's a picture of him and the whole 'team' on his phone.)

Stepping back onto the field in AT&T Park literally knocks him speechless. He can't think of anything that he wants to say or could say if he tried. The first person to notice him is Bochy, who claps him on the back and tells him to do a little BP. Almost as if he's decided that he's Buster's unofficial protector, Wilson yet again appears out of nowhere. His arm lays across Buster's shoulder and he's steered to the BP cage. 

Even if Wilson's just hogging him so he can get the dirt first, Buster's grateful. He's looked an ugly death in the faces more than once without flinching, but he's not so sure he can handle his former teammates.

The ones he knows quietly acknowledge him, chat and ask him how he's doing. Nobody asks where he's been or what he's been doing because by this time, they all already know the Doctor's cover story. Buster knows they've probably been given a stern lecture by Sabean and Bochy about how to approach him. Or handle him, depending on your take on the situation. He wonders if any of them think that he's crazy and they have to treat him gently for fear he'll snap. The thought's amusing.

Still... none of them avoid him. The ones that he didn't actually know before, rookies or guys from other teams that have been traded to the Giants, they either introduce themselves properly or someone else does. His favorites are Cabrera, Pagan and Blanco, all new additions since he's been there. He realizes the TARDIS is still translating for him when he can understand them perfectly and he speaks almost no Spanish. That, apparently, draws attention because he chats and jokes with them freely... and apparently in Spanish. The ones that knew him are staring at him like he's grown a second head.

He shrinks back, falling silent again.

Bochy, having apparently had enough of the shenanigans, orders Buster to take a turn in the cage. One of the BP coaches hands him a helmet and a bat. He takes a deep breath and clenches his eyes for a minute, trying to forget that everyone is watching him. He remembers what he used to tell himself, just focus on the game in front of you. 

It works well enough. He's rusty but he can feel it coming back to him. He smooths it out a little with each swing and nails a home run on the seventh pitch. The hoots and whistles and laughter makes him duck his head and blush. He hadn't realized how much he had missed this. Just as soon as he steps out of the cage, he's whisked away to strap on catcher's gear and then hustled off to the bullpen.

He's allowed to skip out on the conditioning to see if he can still catch, still make the call. Each of the pitchers is rotated through in turn and Tim's the last. Buster meets his eyes for a moment... he remembers Tim's hands and hair brushing across his skin. He remembers the way Tim had punched him and flipped the fuck out. It makes him feel cold. The session with Tim is a disaster.

When they finally call it quits for the day, he feels like there's no part of his body that isn't aching. He showers in the main locker rooms, redressing in the clothing Wilson had stashed for him. He politely declines any offers to hang out because he's not so sure that he can handle the inevitable questions. 

He wanders out into the plaza, noting with a quick stab of relief that the TARDIS is where it had been when he'd went inside. The Doctor is probably inside tinkering in the control room or running around the city getting into some sort of trouble. He's walking down the street, looking around and whistling softly when a car rolls to a stop next to him. It's shiny, looks very expensive and the windows are tinted probably more than is legal. The window rolls down and he sees Tim.

“What do you want?”

“Can we talk? Get in.”

“I really don't think there's anything to talk about Tim.” Buster mutters, walking. The car rolls along, inch by inch, and he's pretty sure there's about to be a scene.

“C'mon Posey, please. You've go to let me... just let me apologize! I was stupid that morning, I know I was. It wasn't you, it was my fault. It was all me.” 

“Nobody's arguing with you dude.”

“Buster.”

It's that that does it. That small voice and the pleading eyes. Buster sighs and opens the door, sliding down into the car. “I'm hungry. And we better go somewhere good.”


End file.
